


Together Anywhere

by disappointed



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Canon verse, Crossposted from Livejournal, Ex-Member, Kpop Olymfics 2013, M/M, Post-Break Up, So much angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-07-16 13:38:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7270480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disappointed/pseuds/disappointed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This scene is a bit misleading: with the two of them sitting there, Luhan's hand in Minseok's and his head leaning against Minseok's shoulder, they look like any other happy couple. But this is all wrong. </p><p>There are serene expressions on their faces, and Luhan's thinking, <em>stop</em>. There are soft smiles on their lips, and Luhan's thinking, <em>go away</em>. Their fingers are laced tightly together, and Luhan's thinking, <em>why are you doing this</em>. Minseok's resting his head on top of Luhan's, and Luhan's thinking, <em>haven't you made this hard enough already?</em></p><p>Because, really, this is all very misleading. None of this is what it looks like.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Together Anywhere

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written for the 2013 round of [kpop-olymfics @ LJ](http://kpop-olymfics.livejournal.com) and reposted [here](http://terrours.livejournal.com/2060.html). It's based on 2PM's [I Wonder If You Hurt Like Me](http://youtu.be/OhuVWznRDDs) MV and these [two](http://farm1.staticflickr.com/47/151795866_bfe98f441a_z.jpg?zz=1) [pictures](http://data.whicdn.com/images/50555693/tumblr_mftxs6pfBD1s1kj9uo1_400_large.jpg). This fic is a choose not to warn experience, so please be aware of that!

These days, Minseok never approaches Luhan unless he's alone.  
  
Luhan can always sense Minseok before he sees him. It's subtle: the slightest disturbance in the air beside him when he's walking down the street, a flicker of something in the atmosphere hanging over him when he's lying awake at night, a minute prickling sensation running down his spine when he's brushing his teeth over the bathroom sink in the early mornings and something moves behind him. It's perceptible, the little bits and pieces of the environment shifting around the presence of Minseok.  
  
Today _(24th April 2012, somewhere between two and three hours too early in the morning, he knows this very clearly)_ , he's sat at an airport terminal skimming pointless magazine articles when he feels the change in the ambience of the empty seat beside him. And he's thinking _no, please don't_. He's thinking _please, not now_. He's thinking, maybe, _I can't handle this_.  
  
But Minseok is there. Luhan can feel it. And finally, he looks up.  
  
Minseok's giving him that stupid smile, the crooked one that shows more gums than teeth. He's wearing another stupid knit hat with a puffball on top, the kind that Luhan's tempted to reach over and flick at. Sitting there innocently, like he doesn't even know that he's slowly breaking Luhan down, he says, "Hey."  
  
And Luhan thinks, he probably _doesn't_ know.  
  
The airport is loud and vivid around them, vibrant and alive. It's funny, the way there's chatter and grinding of carry-on suitcase wheels against tile floors and hollow-voiced announcements over the speakers, but Luhan's nerves are so tense that he can hear the soft plastic tap of Yixing's spoon against his cup of ice cream two seats down. There's the sharp scent of bleach from the newly-cleaned floors and the odd staleness of suitcases that have gathered years' worth of dust under beds, but he's so on edge that he can smell the faintest traces of cologne on Wufan's shirt three seats down.  
  
Or maybe he pays attention to all these things because it might keep him from noticing when Minseok says, "Hey. Are you doing okay?"  
  
And, see, that's the thing. It's a very complex question. Minseok is most of the reason it's complex. And it's not fair for Minseok to ask him something like that and expect him, in the socially acceptable space of two point five seconds, to come up with an honest answer — because Minseok always wants an honest answer. He asks those kinds of questions because he genuinely cares.  
  
Luhan didn't used to hate him for that. These days, he kind of does.  
  
Two seconds into the allotted period of silent contemplation, Luhan gives up. Instead he puts down his magazine, swats at the puffball on Minseok's hat and gives him a little sideways smile. "If you keep wearing so many hats, the top of your head could disappear and you'd never notice."  
  
And Minseok knows Luhan. Knows him too well, probably, after three years. He knows what it means when Luhan blatantly dodges that kind of question. So he reaches over and takes Luhan's hand, covering it with both of his — his hands look like they'd be soft, maybe warm, but they're icy cold. Luhan wrinkles his nose.  
  
"You're freezing. Stop stealing my warmth."  
  
Minseok quirks an eyebrow. "Do you want me to let go?"  
  
Three years, and he knows Luhan. He understands the meaning behind this silence as well. Sitting there in the airport terminal, surrounded by the rushing crowds and pressing noise and long-forgotten magazine, he rubs his hands over Luhan's to warm them up without a word.

 

 

 

But this is all a bit misleading. With the two of them sitting there like that, Luhan's hands in Minseok's and his head leaning against Minseok's shoulder and their knees just barely brushing together, they look like any other happy couple. With the familiarity between them, the comfortable silence, they look like any other two people who are close enough to speak without words.  
  
This is all wrong.  
  
There are calm expressions on their faces, nearly serene. Luhan's thinking, _stop_. There are soft smiles on both of their lips. Luhan's thinking, _go away_. Their fingers are laced together. Luhan's thinking, _why are you doing this_. Minseok's resting his head on top of Luhan's. Luhan's thinking, _haven't you made this hard enough already?_  
  
Because none of this is what it looks like.

 

 

 

Rewind a bit to January.  
  
Today _(4th January, sometime between seven and eight PM, he's vaguely aware of this)_ , it's cold. Not the kind of cold where you can tug on a sweater, wrap on a scarf, and you'll warm up again. Not the kind of cold where a few minutes in front of a heater will fix it. It's the kind of cold that works its way through your skin and gets right into the centre of your bones, leaving you shivering from both the inside and the outside until it feels like you might never get warm.  
  
Even here in one of the SM building's practise rooms, it's cold. The walls do nothing but stave off the wind for another few hours. Even with the exertion of dancing, the heat from the movements of his body, Luhan can't get warm. His skin is hot, but the sweat nearly freezes on his forehead.  
  
So today, he's alone here in the cold. Running through familiar routines, familiar choreography, until they find their way into his muscle memory and become instinct. And he's paused for a moment, his fingers shaking nearly too much to re-tie the laces on his shoes, when he hears the footsteps. The click of the lock. The door swinging open on its hinges. And three more footsteps — three slow, uncertain steps.  
  
This is when the happy couple thing ends.  
  
It starts like this: _Luhan, have you got a moment?_  
  
Of course he does.  
  
It continues like this: _We really need to talk._  
  
Of course they do.  
  
It approaches its conclusion like this: _It's important._  
  
Of course it is.  
  
And it ends like this: with five words. Five words is all it takes.  
  
Then it's over. It's all very sudden, and a bit surreal. Last night he kissed a bit of ice cream from the corner of Minseok's mouth, the kind of gesture they both find a bit cute and a bit sickening, and smiled against Minseok's lips as he told him _I love you_. The night before that he nestled into Minseok's arms watching a dumb film about zombies and told him, _I don't really know what I'd do without you_. And for the three years before that he's been loving Kim Minseok with every fibre of his being, that unguarded open kind of love that comes from those who trust too easily and give themselves too generously.  
  
For three years, there's always been a part of him that undeniably and irrevocably belonged to Minseok. Even now, there still is. But the thing is, in return, Minseok is no longer his.  
  
Five words, and Luhan can only stand there and listen as their relationship ends.  
  
After that, he's not quite the same.

 

 

 

Here's a good example. Pick back up a few months later, just after their debut stage, when everything is a whirlwind and no one sleeps and everything is about going from human to flawless in the blink of an eye. Carefully observe the way that, all around Luhan, life has gone on.  
  
Today _(13th April, somewhere between one and two hours too early in the morning, he knows this very clearly)_ , EXO-M is telling the world who they are and Luhan is not listening.  
  
The scene is like this: he's sat in front of three cameras catching the dark circles under his eyes from three different angles, and whichever shot is worst will be the one that makes it into the final cut. This never changes.  
  
Some other things that never change: the song playing in the background, the generic speech the MC gives, the words and order of their introduction. These are always the same.  
  
_Hello, we are EXO-M, and we are one._  
  
_Hello, we are EXO-M's remarkably cliché catchphrase._  
  
The fans can mouth the words along with them, whenever they introduce themselves. They smile. The familiarity is comforting.  
  
For Luhan, it's just an excuse not to pay attention.  
  
_Hello, I'm EXO-M's Kris._  
  
_Hello, I'm EXO-M's Lay._  
  
_Hello, I'm EXO-M's painfully fake stage names._  
  
With the way the words and order are always the same, Luhan doesn't need to hear them. He can just listen for the vague sound of Kris's voice, then Lay's, then put in his own five seconds of speaking time before they move on.  
  
_Hello, I'm EXO-M's Luhan._  
  
_Hello, I'm the only one here with a fucking real name._  
  
Luhan doesn't listen because there are things he doesn't want to hear. He's gotten very good at that lately.  
  
For example, _we're not one. We're twelve._  
  
For example, _our personalities have changed with our names._  
  
For example,  
  
_Hello, I'm EXO-M's Xiumin._  
  
_Hello, I'm not Minseok anymore._  
  
_Hello, I'm a reminder of yet another thing that's changed._  
  
So he doesn't hear that part. Like many other things, he blocks it out.  
  
And really, he blocks out a lot of things these days.

 

 

 

Because that's routine now. It's instinct. Luhan doesn't even think about it. And how it works is this: in the back of his mind, there is the Cabinet.  
  
It hasn't always been there. Luhan doesn't choose to put it there, either. He just wakes up one morning _(5th January, five-thirty three AM, he remembers very clearly)_ , and there it is. At the time he's trapped in the centre of his mind, surrounded by racing thoughts. They're clouding around him, thick and smothering, holding him down. His mind is cluttered. Crowded. With the terrifying things closing in on him, slowly crushing him, he begins to choke on the claustrophobia. There's no room, he thinks, to breathe.  
  
But there, in the back of his mind, is the Cabinet. With its smooth polished wood and its simple engravings, it's there with its doors open wide. The empty space inside is dark and inviting.  
  
This is how it begins.  
  
It's not easy. The thoughts are heavy; they're hard to gather. They slip through his fingers, fall from where they're nestled in the crook of his elbow, tumble through the gap of where he's holding them to his chest. All the unwanted words and emotions and memories, it's hard to fight his way through them. And it's panic that makes him do it, his hands shaking with fear as he throws the thoughts into the empty Cabinet and slams the doors on them. He can feel the horrible things battering the inside of wood, shaking it, rattling the metal handles against it — they want to get back into his mind, suffocate him, wrap themselves around his neck and strangle him.  
  
Things like this don't like to stay locked away.  
  
But with the thoughts trapped in there, the air is clearer. He can breathe. The things inside the Cabinet can't hurt him anymore; they're gone.  
  
And now, blocking things out is what he does.

 

 

 

He's got much better at it. Refined his technique. With the chaotic way he threw thoughts into the Cabinet that first day, it used to be a mess. But these days _(April sometime, it doesn't really matter)_ , it's much neater. Now, it's almost possible to forget how it started out. It looks normal. It could be anyone's, really.  
  
The thoughts have formed themselves into little squares of paper, one for each idea, and plastered themselves to the insides of the Cabinet like wallpaper. The shelves on each wall are carefully organised, one item directly in the centre of each; things he's put there one by one over the past three months.  
  
And it's set up like this: on the bottom left shelf, there's a little glass piano with an engraved gold lever that you can wind anti-clockwise to play some Korean ballad song in music box tones. On the bottom right shelf, a stack of messily-written letters he scrawled out in the form of lyrics a while back _(last December sometime, it doesn't really matter)_. On the middle left shelf, a clear glass jar full of invisible kisses that he caught out of the air when Minseok used to blow them to him _(between 2008 and 2012 sometime, it doesn't really matter)_. On the middle right shelf, a stack of photographs with the edges neatly lined up, turned face-down so he can't see which one ended up on top. On the top left shelf, three small white candles with the wicks half-burnt down, drops of dried wax dripping down the side.  
  
The top right shelf, the last one his eyes always fall on, has a key. It's nothing special. Just the same brass material as the handles of the door, no unique design or anything. And it's hard to see, not without leaning all the way into the Cabinet and squinting through the darkness, but there's a door on the back wall. It's small and shallow, locked from the outside. And the key, it's just the right size to fit into that lock.  
  
The last thing, really, is behind that door. But on the top right shelf is the key, slowly gathering dust, untouched since the first day it was put there.  
  
And Luhan plans for it to stay that way.

 

 

 

But the problem with this is, though the worst of the thoughts and the strongest of the memories are shut away, the smaller thoughts and weaker memories can't be. Every time Luhan's tried to put them into the Cabinet, they've slipped through the crack between the doors or slid out through the space around the hinges in the side. He's tried again and again to make them stay there, but it's never worked.  
  
Which is why today _(beginning of May sometime, doesn't really matter when)_ , Luhan's sitting in a room filled with dozens of people but his mind is filled with thoughts of only one.  
  
"Luhan-hyung?"  
  
Ah. That's the person he's _meant_ to be paying attention to. Not the one his mind is actually on.  
  
But this isn't really an uncommon scenario. If all the thoughts would just allow themselves to be neatly shut away, Luhan thinks, he wouldn't spend all day doing this. He wouldn't sit alone on the floor watching terrible k-dramas, wishing he had Minseok to mock the stupid dialogue with. He wouldn't be standing on the 20th floor balcony of one of their hotels, remembering when Minseok used to sneak up behind him and pretend to push him just to mess with his fear of heights. He wouldn't be curled up under a blanket on a freezing-cold plane, thinking of how Minseok still sometimes wraps him in as many warm jackets as he can steal when the other members aren't looking, but how it doesn't mean anything anymore.  
  
And it's worse, probably, because of how much time he chooses to spend in the little world inside his head —  
  
"Hyung!"  
  
He comes back to reality.

 

 

 

Reality today _(beginning of May sometime, doesn't really matter when)_ is escaping from reality. This means Jino. Jino with his brows furrowed and the hint of frown. Jino looking at him across the table in a noisy noodle shop, his chopsticks paused halfway to his mouth with a piece of beef slowly slipping from them. Jino saying, "Hyung, is everything okay?"  
  
Jino, lately, is his favourite escape. During Luhan's trainee days, before Jino got too busy with SM The Ballad, they'd sit together after practice. Luhan would try out different Korean phrases he'd picked up over the past few days, and Jino would politely correct his grammar. They'd go over the songs Jino had to learn, harmonising together on the less difficult parts. And even at the height of Jino's popularity they'd go out to eat sometimes, not too often, but enough that they comfortably transitioned from acquaintances to friends.  
  
And when the hype of SM The Ballad faded, just like he'd promised, Jino found his way back to Luhan. Jino hadn't questioned it when a few months ago _(13th January, he remembers it very clearly)_ , Luhan called him with the faintest traces of tears in his voice and begged him to come over. He hadn't questioned it when Luhan started doing this more and more often. And he hadn't questioned it when, after debut, Luhan asked to see him anytime he had a spare moment in Korea. He'd just laughed and said, _I've got time on my hands_.  
  
So Luhan says, "Yeah." He smiles, gives a little exhale, and says, "Everything's fine."  
  
Reality today is escaping. This means Jino, nodding and returning to his noodles without pressing the subject any further. This, he thinks, is why Jino is his favourite.

 

 

 

It could also be because his actual reality, more or less, all comes back to Minseok.  
  
For example, the way he feels Minseok's presence behind him when he accidentally wakes Minseok up by getting a glass of water in the middle of the night, and because he's half-asleep and pathetic, he turns around and hugs Minseok and buries his face in Minseok's neck and tries not to say stupid things like _I miss you_ and _I can't do this anymore_ and _can we at least talk about this again?_  
  
For example, the look of pity and worry the other members give him when he storms out of Minseok's bedroom and slams shut the door of his own after something he thinks might've been an argument (he's not sure if _Luhan, you need to let go of this, can't you see what you're doing to yourself_ counts as an argument or not).  
  
For example, the way that when he's alone, Minseok always seems to appear next to him, in front of him, beside him — or maybe it's just that Luhan gravitates to him naturally, still stuck in the old patterns and habits that he can't change.  
  
For example, it's been four fucking months and Luhan still can't figure out how to shape his reality around anything besides Minseok.  
  
Some other things that all come back to Minseok: how little he sleeps, how much he thinks, how much time he spends in the little world of memories inside his head, how many reminders of Minseok he has to block out — and, really, everything.  
  
And you'd think after four fucking months, it wouldn't be this bad. You'd think, maybe, he'd be coping. But after four fucking months, Luhan still can't figure out how to shape his reality around anything besides Minseok.  
  
Maybe that's why he doesn't spend much time in reality anymore.

 

 

 

And Luhan's other escape is even more detached from reality. Which is that, on days like this _(12th May, eleven twenty-one AM, he's vaguely aware of this)_ , he looks over the photographs on the top left shelf of the Cabinet and considers burning them.  
  
Out of all the objects in the Cabinet, the photographs are the second-worst. They're also the ones he comes back to the most. He doesn't look at the paper thoughts. He's never wound up the glass piano music box to hear its song. He only glances at the sheets of lyrics. He doesn't see the invisible kisses unless he's looking for them. He doesn't light the candles. And he never, ever touches the key (because, really, the key is the worst). But time after time, he finds himself flipping through the photographs and thinking he should burn them.  
  
There must be a reason, Luhan thinks, that they do it in all the films and dramas and music videos. He'd always thought it was a bit petty, but now he can see the appeal. Because he's got all these photographs, stacks upon stacks of them, three years of his life spread out over hundreds of snapshot moments, and just throwing them out would be too anti-climactic. This kind of thing, he thinks, requires definite and dramatic closure.  
  
It requires destroying them so completely, so utterly, that he can never get them back.  
  
But, really, the amount of photographs is entirely his own fault. With the way he was always shoving cameras into Minseok's face, digital cameras and video cameras and anyone's phone camera he could get his hands on, of course he's got more memories than he knows what to do with. It must've been obnoxious, he knows, from the way Minseok patiently smiled and continued to go about his life as Luhan followed him around snapping photos at intermittent intervals, but he couldn't bring himself to stop.  
  
Because the truth is, nothing ever happens again the exact same way. No one does the exact same thing, looks the exact same, says the exact same words in the exact same voice. No one lives a day over in the exact same way. And no one's memory is perfect. He wanted to capture every single important moment, because otherwise, it could be lost forever.  
  
Luhan should've been careful what he wished for. Because now he's got all these split-seconds of perfection captured here, these unique and irreplaceable moments, and he thinks, he needs to get rid of them.  
  
So sometimes, he looks them over and considers burning them.

 

 

 

Luhan doesn't burn the pictures, he tells himself, because it would be too cliché. All those films and dramas and music videos, and his story would be just another typical young love aiming for significance by following the path of so many others.  
  
This, at least, is what he tells himself.  
  
But on days like today _(12th May, eleven twenty-one AM, he's vaguely aware of this)_ he likes to imagine it, very vividly.  
  
He'd do it like this: pick up the photographs one by one, holding them between his index finger and thumb by just one corner. He'd try not to look at them; if he saw those photographs, looked at their faces, remembered those moments, he might not be able to raise the lighter to the bottom of them and watch them burn.  
  
But he would.  
  
Here's a good one: Luhan and Minseok sitting together in the terrible, washed-out orange lighting of an expensive restaurant that Joonmyun used to treat their group of trainees to pre-debut. Luhan's draping himself over Minseok's back, grinning stupidly at the camera, and the scene's frozen in the split second before the milkshake being toppled by Minseok's elbow spills all over Jongin's leg. Minseok's laughing, looking at Luhan with something between fondness and amusement and the beginnings of love.  
  
His fingers gripped tight and white-knuckled around the red plastic lighter, palms sweaty and hands shaking, he would flick down on the wheel and watch the flame hiss to life on the edge of the paper.  
  
Here's another: Luhan, back when his hair was long enough to touch his shoulders, sitting cross-legged on the floor of their dorm with Minseok kneeling behind him. Minseok's got Luhan's hair half-braided, an elastic band wrapped around his wrist, but his fingers are caught in the wavy strands and the ends are a tangled, frizzy mess. He's looking at it like he's never been so baffled by anything in his life, and Luhan is politely pretending not to notice while hiding a smile behind his hand.  
  
The sharp smell of burning starting to cloud the air, the edges of the picture going brittle and dark, he would be unable to do anything but watch as the fire crackled and ate through every shape in its path.  
  
Oh, but here's an even better one: Luhan and Minseok on the beach, barefoot and sandy and windswept. It's getting late at night, only a few hints of light from the sunset left, and the shore is empty. Luhan's arms are around Minseok's waist, Minseok's around Luhan's shoulders, and they're both smiling so wide that it looks like it might hurt. And the picture is shaky and blurry from the way Jongin was laughing when he took it, watching Sehun sneak up behind the two of them to drop a sand crab into the hood of Luhan's sweatshirt, but that hardly even matters. Because looking at that picture, the two of them holding each other so tightly, it'd be impossible to imagine them letting go.  
  
The smoke starting to rise up from the sides of the paper, the middle of it, he wouldn't be able to stop it now even if he wanted to. Half of the picture gone, then three-quarters, and there'd be no way to get it back once the flame started creeping up to the top corner, the part he's holding.  
  
And then there's this one: Minseok. Alone. It's his phone he's taking the picture with, holding it at an elevated angle and smiling into it awkwardly, still unsure of the way his new short haircut shapes his face. And it wouldn't be anything special, just another selca Luhan begged Minseok to send when he was away in China and missing him terribly, except that it's the last picture he's got of Minseok before —  
  
It'd be hot by now. Too hot. He'd have to drop it into the kitchen sink, watch as the last little corner of it crumpled inwards into ash before the fire burnt itself out. And like that, in a few seconds, it would be over.  
  
The memories would be gone.  
  
That's what it'd be like, Luhan imagines, if he ever burnt the pictures.  
  
But he doesn't. He can't. He stacks them back up, the edges lined up perfectly even and the photos face-down, then puts them back on the top left shelf of the Cabinet where they belong. Because, he thinks, burning the pictures would be too cliché.  
  
Or at least, that's what Luhan tells himself.

 

 

 

But Luhan tells himself a lot of things. By now, that's become instinct too. For example, today _(15th May, morning sometime, it doesn't really matter when)_ , he's sitting here in front of five different cameras catching the dark circles under his eyes from five different angles and telling himself that it's perfectly normal that EXO-M is telling the world who they are and he isn't listening.  
  
_Hello, we are EXO-M, and we are one._  
  
_Hello, we are EXO-M, and we could be saying anything for all I know and care._  
  
Of course it's normal, he rationalises. He's heard this all time and time again. The fans can mouth along with the words, and Luhan could too, if he wanted. But he already knows who they all are, and so this is normal.  
  
_Hello, I'm EXO-M's Kris._  
  
_Hello, I'm EXO-M's Lay._  
  
_Hello, I'm EXO-M's extremely predictable self-promotion._  
  
The fans, they laugh at the blank looks on his face. His slow reaction time. His usual silence during interviews; the way he speaks only when spoken to. Maybe they think he's shy. Maybe they think he's stupid. Most of them just think he's off in his own little world.  
  
If only they knew.  
  
_Hello, I'm EXO-M's Luhan._  
  
_Hello, I'm only pretending to be here._  
  
The fans, they think his little habit is funny. They think it's cute. And so, Luhan tells himself, this is perfectly normal.  
  
And it's okay, because now he doesn't hear,  
  
_Hello, I'm EXO-M's Xiumin._  
  
_Hello, I'm not —_  
  
It's for the best, Luhan tells himself, that he tells himself a lot of things.

 

 

 

The problem is, Jino doesn't seem to think so.  
  
Today _(middle of May sometime, doesn't matter when)_ , they're at a bubble tea shop. They set their drinks down on a nondescript stainless steel table in the corner, hidden halfway behind a potplant that looks halfway between real and fake; the metal chair scrapes against the tile floor when Luhan pulls it out, and he winces.  
  
"Hyung, I worry about you," says Jino; he says it very gently, but also very bluntly. "I just — I do."  
  
And then it's quiet. Luhan is looking out the window, watching a man on a bicycle narrowly miss colliding with a bird hopping along on the pavement. Jino is looking down at his unravelling gloves, poking his straw into the plastic covering his cup.  
  
"Actually," says Jino, "A lot of us do. I wonder if you even notice."  
  
Suddenly, it's taking all Luhan's focus to get the straw through the plastic wrap on the top of the bubble tea. It's not sharp enough to go through on the first try; tea wells out of the puncture, spilling over the top of the cup. He frowns, lifting it to his mouth to slurp it off, then tries again.  
  
"You know what, never mind," says Jino. "I'm sorry. It's not really my place to say things like that, is it?"  
  
This time, Luhan stabs the straw in with one quick movement. It works. Satisfied, he looks up at Jino.  
  
"It's fine." He smiles reassuringly, just for a brief moment, and watches the tension visibly ease out of the way Jino's gloved fingers are clenched against his palms. "You can say anything you want. We're friends, aren't we?"  
  
"Yeah." Jino smiles back, very sincerely, but there's something about the way the corners of his lips falter that makes Luhan pause just a bit. "Just … please don't cut yourself off from everyone, alright? Don't get so caught up in remembering what was or what could've been that you forget to think about what actually is."  
  
Jino doesn't know, Luhan tells himself. He doesn't know about all the thoughts, about the little world inside Luhan's head, about all those little memories carefully sorted out on shelves in the Cabinet in the back of his mind. But yet, somehow, he sees these things without knowing what they are.  
  
And Jino says, softly, "Take care of yourself, since I can't always be there to do it."  
  
And this is when Luhan starts to think. He starts to wonder what it would be like if, suddenly, he stopped thinking about Minseok. If he shut the doors of the Cabinet, closed away the lyrics and music box and and candles, and never went back. If he never looked through the photographs again. If he pretended the key never existed. He starts to wonder, just a bit, what it would be like to sit in a show or an interview and say, _Hello, we are EXO-M, and we are one_ without ignoring the sound of his own voice. What it would be like to keep listening after that, no matter what names he heard. And, just for a moment, he starts to wonder if maybe _he's_ the reason he can't build a reality outside of Minseok. If, deep down, he's choosing not to let himself.  
  
It's brief, very brief. But the idea takes root.

 

 

 

And it keeps root, for a while. But the thing is, it's much easier to ignore something that's far away. It's much easier to think about what your life would be like without something when it's not right in front of you. In the space of a second, you can suddenly remember what you're missing and how much you're missing it.  
  
This is what happens with Minseok.  
  
For two days, the idea keeps root. But today _(18th May, somewhere between four and five hours too early in the morning, he knows this very clearly)_ Luhan gets on a plane to a different continent and a different language and a different life, and Minseok goes with him.  
  
It's easy to think about a reality without Minseok when he's in a Seoul bubble tea shop with his escape. It's not as easy to think about it when he's on a plane over the Pacific ocean, Minseok watching over his shoulder as he plays a Pokemon game on the Nintendo DS a fan sent him for his birthday last month.  
  
"That one reminds me of you," Minseok says, pointing out a little yellow and green fawn-like animal on the screen; it smiles up at him.  
  
"What, Deerling?" Luhan looks up from the game, a slight frown on his face. "I look more like the evolved form."  
  
"I don't know. You've got the same eyes." Minseok tugs on the sleeve of Luhan's green shirt, and laughs. "You're even the same colour."  
  
"It's May," grumbles Luhan, switching the game off. "I'm in my summer form."  
  
"Sure."  
  
And Luhan doesn't know when it happened, but he's smiling, and Minseok's smiling back. He shoves Minseok's shoulder, and Minseok shoves him back. And he's smiling, still smiling, when he wraps himself in one of the airline's thin blankets and leans back against the closed window shade. "I'm taking a nap."  
  
Minseok leans over, tucking a pillow behind his head, and nods. "Sleep well. Dream of finally evolving."  
  
Luhan hides another smile. "Shut up."  
  
(And he can't quite believe it, but when he goes back to his game later, he sees Minseok's been playing it. Somehow, Minseok's managed to capture him another Deerling.)  
  
This is when Luhan thinks, they might be okay. Four fucking months after it ended, and he thinks maybe he can co-exist with Minseok without having to let go of him.  
  
Besides, he decides, it's not like he'd want a reality without Minseok anyway.

 

 

 

Looking back on it, Luhan will think, that's probably where it starts. The moment that thought crosses his mind is probably when it all begins: the slow, steady unravelling of the little world he's built for himself. Four fucking months, and he's spent all of them trying to block Minseok out. He's spent them taking all the little reminders of their time together and packing them up, hiding them away, anything to keep them from overwhelming him.  
  
Four fucking months, and he's spent all of them trying to convince himself that he doesn't want Minseok around. But the problem is, he does. He wants Minseok so much.  
  
(More than he even realises.)  
  
And looking back on it, Luhan will think, that thought is dangerous. It's dangerous enough to have all his carefully constructed defences and meticulously organised hiding places falling apart.  
  
Because in that moment, the seed of an idea that Jino planted twists, morphs, and takes deeper root. In that moment, he's thinking, he was wrong. The solution isn't to push those memories away, so deep in the back of his mind that he can forget they exist. The solution isn't to put them somewhere they can't touch him. The solution isn't to think that locking things up will get rid of them. The solution isn't to think that he can spend his whole life without ever facing those things head-on.  
  
The solution is to accept that Minseok is, and always will be, his reality.  
  
The solution is to let those things out.

 

 

 

So he does.

 

 

 

Today _(19th May, time doesn't matter)_ , he starts with the little glass piano. The one on the bottom left shelf of the Cabinet, with the gold lever you can wind anti-clockwise to play some Korean ballad song in music box tones.  
  
How it happens is this: with all twelve of them standing in some amusement park in the middle of California, lost and tired and wondering if the sun's too strong for their SPF BB cream, Luhan walks over to Minseok and grabs him by the hand. These days, Minseok never approaches Luhan unless he's alone, but today Luhan walks over to him in broad daylight and squeezes Minseok's hand in his.  
  
"Let's go," he says, with a little smile, and Minseok doesn't disagree.  
  
With the two of them walking alone together through the park, Luhan pulling Minseok along by his wrist and Minseok following with a bemused smile, Luhan thinks that this is how it used to be before everything went wrong. With Minseok keeping him company while the others ride the roller coasters ( _I'm just watching the bags_ , Luhan protested, _it's not like I'm too scared to go_ — even though he is), Luhan thinks that this is the way it should still be. With Minseok poking his side and teasing him about the way his face goes pale at the height of the rides, he thinks, this is the way it still _can_ be.  
  
He just has to give in and let it happen.  
  
Tonight, a sleeping Minseok stretched out next to him on the too-small hotel bed, Luhan runs his fingers through Minseok's hair and opens the Cabinet in the back of his mind. He reaches down to the bottom left shelf and picks up the glass piano, blowing some of the dust off the top of it. He winds the gold lever anti-clockwise, listening to the little clicking noises it makes with each rotation, then lets go of it and waits. It takes a moment for the song to start, the little tones chiming slowly at first, then faster, but he smiles.  
  
Curling up next to Minseok on the tiny bed, putting an arm around Minseok's waist to keep him from falling off the edge, Luhan listens to that Korean ballad song and smiles. He drifts off to sleep thinking of the first month they dated, when Minseok used to sing along with this song just for him, and smiles.  
  
When he wakes up and checks the Cabinet, the glass piano is gone.

 

 

 

So today _(25th May, time doesn't matter)_ , Luhan plans to continue with the letters. He looks at the stacks of them, messy characters and lettering in smudged ink all over the pages, and decides that tonight he'll read them.  
  
But today, Luhan is laying on the floor of the practice room thinking, _they really need to sweep this place more_. Yixing laying beside him, clutching his wrist and gritting his teeth, Luhan's thinking, _this floor gets dusty really quickly_.  
  
Not even one minute into their run-through of History, he's slid too far forward during one of the position switches and collided with Yixing. Yixing's gone down hard. And the thing is, Luhan would feel bad about it, but he isn't even surprised. This has happened many times before. The last few weeks leading up to their debut stage _(9th April, he remembers it clearly)_ , the managers and choreographers were always yelling. A few missteps, a few wrong moves, and he was sending Zitao stumbling or knocking over Jongdae. It was quite ordinary. At least, to him.  
  
So the managers and choreographers yelled and yelled _(it's only a small choreography change Luhan, why can't you get this, our jobs are on the line here, look we understand you're upset right now but are you even fucking listening)_ until it was perfect. Until everyone stayed upright during practices. Until, in their first live performances, no one tensed up and braced themselves when Luhan's timing was just a half-second off.  
  
But that's exactly the problem. Over time, the altered choreography worked its way into his muscle memory, and he stopped thinking so much. He stopped tripping Wufan and pausing half a second short of careening into Minseok.  
  
And now, suddenly, he's doing it again.  
  
Yixing is laying on the dusty wood floor, his fingers closed around his swelling wrist and his eyes squeezed shut, and all Luhan can say is, "Sorry." And with the way they're all looking at him, this mixture of confusion and frustration and something less obvious (pity, maybe?), Luhan knows _sorry_ isn't going to be enough.

 

 

 

And it's not.  
  
"It's not your fault," Minseok says, a few hours later, once Yixing's sprained wrist has been put in a brace and Luhan's been viciously reprimanded by nearly every member of SM staff. "It was just a mistake."  
  
Luhan's exhausted, worn out from the three extra hours of practice he was assigned as punishment; it won't be the last time, either. He leans his head back against the wall of his bedroom, where he's locked himself in to avoid the accusing and scornful looks of the other four. "You're just telling me what I want to hear."  
  
Minseok smiles, bitterly. "What else do you want me to do?"  
  
And Luhan doesn't know. He doesn't know, either, why all of a sudden he's screwing things up again —

 

 

 

— Except, he thinks, that maybe he does. Because there, doing those routines, he was suddenly stuck somewhere in the past _(December 2011, maybe, or sometime around then, he's not really sure)_. Running through those moves on autopilot, he was reacting to a different, older version of the choreography. A version he ran through time and time again during the months leading up to debut, before it was changed.  
  
In his mind, everything was where it was in December 2011. Everything was in its place.  
  
But in the real world, it was all wrong. Jongdae was in half the places Minseok used to be, and Luhan couldn't keep up. Zitao was too far forward half the time, filling up some of the spaces left by Jongdae, and Luhan was confused. With the way Yixing was moving much more than usual, seamlessly closing every little gap in the choreography and every little break in their formation, Luhan was lost. And with the way Minseok was further away in the back somewhere, over on the side, Luhan had no idea where he was. Because Minseok used to be his marker, the one he looked at to figure out where he was and where he was supposed to be —  
  
He did this, really, because he could never take his eyes off Minseok when Minseok was dancing. He was always looking for Minseok. But now, looking for Minseok, he's looking in the wrong places.

 

 

 

Tonight _(25th May, but with the way his mind's somewhere else entirely, it doesn't fucking matter)_ , he reads the letters. Sitting on the floor of his bedroom, his back up against the wall, he lets Minseok hold him as he closes his eyes and opens the Cabinet.  
  
It takes him a while to get through them all. There are stacks upon stacks of them, the middles crinkled and the edges torn, and in places the ink is smudged or faded so badly that he can barely make out the words. Some are in Mandarin, some are in Korean, and some are in a mixture of both; they were all for Minseok, really, but he never saw a single one of them.  
  
During the three years they were together, Luhan wrote so many of these letters that he can't even remember what half of them say. One day, he thought, he'd show them to Minseok. He'd let Minseok see, in the rawest form possible, how Luhan had slowly fallen for him.  
  
Three years, he wrote these letters. And now, he thinks, Minseok will never get to see them.  
  
It's an hour. Maybe two. He loses track.  
  
The first letter is simple — _I saw you once, and now I see you wherever I go_.  
  
The second letter is a bit less simple — _I don't mind, though_.  
  
The letters in the middle are complex — _If all good things come to an end, I'd rather this thing between us become a bad thing than watch it disappear_.  
  
And the last letter he reads, the second-to-last one in the pile, he tears to shreds the minute he finishes it — _I wish that you were here, or I were there, or we were together anywhere_.  
  
When Luhan opens his eyes, they're wet. So are his eyelashes and his cheeks. It surprises him a bit; he doesn't cry, he never really has, so at first he's not sure what's happening. He's not sure why, either. But Minseok doesn't say a word about it. He doesn't dry Luhan's tears. Doesn't acknowledge them, either. Just pats Luhan on the shoulder and gets up to leave without a word, closing and locking the door behind him. In the silence Luhan takes a deep breath, waiting for the tears to dry on their own.  
  
(And he thinks, he never saw the final letter, the very last one in the pile — _but now we are_.)  
  
When he wakes up, all the letters are gone, including the one he left unread.

 

 

 

Today _(beginning of June, it doesn't matter, it could be anytime for all he cares)_ , Luhan thinks he'll open the jar of invisible kisses and let them scatter out into the wind. And today, Luhan's got his camera out again. Five fucking months later, he wants another picture of Minseok. A new one, to replace all the ones in the Cabinet that he's imagined burning a hundred times over.  
  
Both of them laying on the floor of the dorm, Luhan holds his phone up above their faces and examines their reflections on the screen. It's hard to see Minseok's face, with the way the sunlight streaming through the windows of their dorm is so bright; taking him by the arm, he scoots them over a bit. Minseok wrinkles his nose, trying to brush his unruly fringe to the side; it's getting long enough that he has to keep shaking it out of his face every few minutes. Luhan moves the phone up and to the side, looking for a better position, then shakes his head.  
  
"We need to sit up. This angle makes me look like I've got a double chin."  
  
"What makes you think it's the angle?" Minseok snickers, then scrambles into a sitting position as Luhan tries to wallop him with a nearby pillow. "Okay! Okay. Point taken."  
  
Sitting next to Minseok, their legs stretched out beside each other on the hardwood floor, Luhan unlocks the screen of his phone again and turns it back to face them. The lighting is bad, really; he has to re-focus the camera to see Minseok's face on the screen next to him.  
  
"On three?" Minseok asks.  
  
"On three," says Luhan, then takes it on two. Minseok makes a noise of protest the second the shutter clicks. Luhan smirks, going back to the camera roll to laugh at Minseok for whatever stupid face he must've been making at the time — and then it's his turn to protest.  
  
Minseok ducked out of the picture at the last minute. Luhan didn't even see him do it, the bastard. Snatching up the pillow again, he beats Minseok over the head with it, ignoring Minseok's laughter. Minseok grabs another to defend himself, and it's not too long before the living room floor is a mess of fluff and inside-out pillow covers, the two of them slumped on their backs laughing breathlessly at the ceiling.  
  
And in the back of his mind, he opens the Cabinet. He picks up the clear glass jar on the middle left shelf, the one that's filled with hundreds of little invisible kisses. To anyone else it might look empty, but Luhan knows better. He knows it's filled with the memories of kisses that he caught out of the air when Minseok blew them to him, that he scooped off his cheeks and forehead and sometimes his lips, while Minseok laughed and said _you're so weird_. By then, he'd accepted this as just another part of Luhan's bizarre and complex personality. It made Luhan smile, the way he took it in stride. And Luhan smiles now, too, as he carries the jar out of the Cabinet, out of his mind. As he opens it. As he watches the things inside slowly stir, caught up in a slight gust of wind, and lift up and out of the little glass jar until there's nothing left inside it.  
  
Laying here like this, looking at Minseok's flushed cheeks and the grin on his face, Luhan thinks that he missed this. Watching the invisible kisses float away in the breeze, he thinks that he missed it so much. He thinks that five months later, they might be okay. Five fucking months later, maybe they can get a fresh start.  
  
But he wonders, just briefly, if he's really getting over Minseok or if he might be falling in love with Minseok all over again.

 

 

 

Jino wonders this too.  
  
Today _(beginning of June, doesn't matter when, could be any time)_ , Luhan thinks that today he really will burn the photographs. Get rid of them once and for all. Because now, he's not burning them to give them some kind of misguided significance. And now he knows he can't cling onto them forever, not with the way that he's slowly but surely letting go of the past so that he can accept Minseok into his present again.  
  
But today he's laying on his bed, laptop in front of him, a video chat with Jino open on the screen. And Jino is frowning.  
  
"I thought you'd be proud of me," Luhan says, and furrows his brows. "I'm letting go of the past. I'm moving on. Isn't this what you wanted?"  
  
"I didn't want it like this." Jino's voice is soft, and Luhan has to lean forwards and turn up the computer's volume to hear it. "Letting go is good. But, hyung, that's not what you're doing. You think you're getting a fresh start, but you're making it all about Minseok. You're fooling yourself."  
  
Luhan's eyes narrow. "What did you say?"  
  
He can see the way Jino flinches. The way he swallows hard. Poor little Jino, he's nervous. He's never talked back to his hyung before. But sitting there in the darkness of his dorm room, far away in Seoul, he takes a deep breath and continues.  
  
"You're getting obsessed with him again, just in a different way. All this is, is a different form of lying to yourself. But this time, you won't even admit you're lying."  
  
Sweet, respectful little Jino. He's never spoken like this to Luhan before, not with that accusatory tone. Not with that shadowed look in his eyes. Luhan digs his nails into his palm.  
  
"But I _am_ moving on. I'm getting better. I'm following your own advice, and now you don't like it. What more do you want from me?"  
  
Precious little Jino, his comforting escape from reality, is turning on him. Turning against him. It's like a slap to the face.  
  
"But I didn't say — all I told you was to come back to the present. Not to cut yourself off from the world forever. But you just — look, I talked to Joonmyun, okay? I talked to Joonmyun and Wufan. You never talk to them anymore. You don't talk to _anyone_ anymore. You're just off somewhere, preoccupied with Minseok, wrapped up in these memories and acting as if never thinking about anything but him is progress."  
  
Loyal little Jino, going behind his back. Sneaking around, whispering about him out of earshot.  
  
"It _is_ progress." Luhan grits his teeth, his tone heated. "You just don't understand how —"  
  
"They _pity_ you, Luhan!" Jino cries, sharply. It shocks Luhan, and he recoils like he's been hit — it hurts him, scares him, more than any punch he's ever taken. Caring little Jino, abandoning all formality. Raising his voice. "Don't you see? They see you acting like this, caught up in these false dreams, obsessing alone over the past, and they pity you. They think you're mental!"  
  
"You're wrong. I'm not alone." Luhan laughs, softly, and shakes his head. "I have Minseok."  
  
Jino is pleading now, his voice breaking. "Please, hyung, come back to reality."  
  
"I _am_ , Jino. I promise I am." Luhan laughs again, and this time he's not sure why (but he thinks, maybe, he just doesn't know what else to do). "Really, I'm almost done. Just two more things to let go of, and then everything will be normal again. Isn't that good?"  
  
And Luhan doesn't understand, he really doesn't, why there are tears in Jino's eyes. Strong little Jino, Luhan doesn't understand why he's crying.  
  
"All you're doing, Luhan, is making your exterior world just as delusional as your interior one."  
  
Luhan wants to snap at him. He wants to fight back. He wants to tell Jino, _you're the delusional one_. He wants to say, _you don't even know what you're talking about_. He wants to say, _if you could see the things inside my head, you'd understand_. And he almost does, he's a second away from it, but then Minseok walks in. He's frowning.  
  
"Is everything okay?" he asks, from the doorway.  
  
Luhan turns, shaking his head. "It's alright. I can handle it."  
  
"Who are you talking to," says Jino, in a low voice.  
  
Luhan grabs his laptop and turns it further to the side, to keep Minseok offscreen. Out of Jino's view. "Nothing. No one. It's fine."  
  
And a funny thing happens then. It happens so gradually that Luhan can see all the stages of it, one by one. It starts with Jino taking in a deep breath, holding it for a few seconds. It continues with his shoulders slumping, his back arching forward. And it finishes with the dark, empty look in his eyes, a shake of his head.  
  
"You told me I could say anything I wanted to you. Remember that? You said we were friends. I'm only saying this because I care. But if you don't want to listen, then I've done all I can do."  
  
The screen goes black. Jino's ended the chat. Luhan curses, lowering his head into his hands; after a moment he can feel Minseok beside him, resting a hand on his back.  
  
"Don't worry about him," says Minseok. "He means well. I'm sure they all do. They just don't know your way of dealing with things."  
  
"It's funny." Luhan laughs, bitterly. "All of this is your fault, really, but you're the only one that understands. The irony is sickening, right?"  
  
(And come to think of it, he's not really sure if he said it out loud or just thought it, but Minseok sits there and rubs his back without a word.  
  
Somehow, Minseok always knows what he needs.)

 

 

 

That night _(beginning of June, doesn't fucking matter when, could be any time)_ , Luhan bangs open the doors of the Cabinet and burns the photographs.  
  
It's just like he imagined. He picks up the photographs one by one, holding them between his index finger and thumb by just one corner. He tries not to look at them; if he sees those photographs, looks at their faces, remembers those moments, he might not be able to raise the lighter to the bottom of them and watch them burn.  
  
But he does.  
  
Luhan's draping himself over a laughing Minseok's back in the expensive restaurant with the terrible, washed-out orange lighting, and Luhan's hands are sweat-slick and nerve-racked on the red plastic lighter as the flame touches the edge of the photograph.  
  
_Make it stop._  
  
Minseok's tangling his fingers in Luhan's long hair, the messy waves half-braided, and the edges of the picture are blackened and curling inward in the acrid air.  
  
_Take it away._  
  
Luhan and Minseok are dishevelled and inseparable on a beach at the end of a sunset, and the fire's covering so much of the photo that it's just the inevitable slow burn of ashes waiting to happen.  
  
_Destroy it._  
  
Minseok's alone and pretending he's not lonely to comfort Luhan, and Luhan's dropping the picture before the fire can lick up his fingers and burn him, because that's the last picture he's got of Minseok before —  
  
_Let it fucking burn._  
  
It's just like he imagined, down to the very last detail. Vivid and real and raw and precise. And just like that, the memories are gone.

 

 

 

(But ah, wait — now that he thinks about it, there _is_ something that's different. Because when he's burning those photographs, he's thinking. Unlike all those times he imagined burning them, again and again and again, he's not mourning the irreplaceable past moments with Minseok he's destroyed. He's not remembering all those individual split-seconds of perfection that will never happen again. He's thinking only that, now, they'll have all the time in the world to replace those lost memories with new ones.)

 

 

 

Tonight _(8th June, just before SMTown Taiwan, could be just before the end of the world for all he cares)_ , Luhan curls up in his tiny hotel bed with all the lights off and opens the Cabinet for the second-to-last time. He leans over to the top left shelf, the second-to-last remaining one, and picks up the three small white candles with the wicks half-burnt down and the drops of dried wax dripping down the sides.  
  
And the thing is, Luhan doesn't understand. Looking at the candles, he doesn't remember where he got them or what they were for. Doesn't remember how they got burnt down. And he's never been one to cry, not really, but he can feel tears running down his face again. With the heat in the room, they make his skin itch as they drip down his cheeks and soak into the pillow he's using to muffle the sobbing noises he's not sure why he's making.  
  
Because he doesn't remember. Picking up the red plastic lighter he used to destroy the photographs, the pain is numbed. Unlike the other memories, he can't feel the full impact of it. It's dulled. There's something holding it back.  
  
Through the blurry haze of tears clinging to his eyelashes, the ones he doesn't understand, Luhan sees the key on the top right shelf. But he thinks, _not yet_. He thinks, _it's not time_.  
  
And he thinks, maybe, _I'm not ready_.  
  
Luhan lights the candles, one by one, and watches the tips of the wicks disappear into the fire and the wax drops roll slowly down to the bottom of the candles.  
  
But the problem is, when he's done, they don't disappear.

 

 

 

But tonight _(9th June, he lost track of time about sixty-two minutes ago, he's vaguely aware of this)_ , Luhan is onstage at SMTown Taiwan thinking, tonight this is all going to end.  
  
Tonight, once this is all over, he's going to open the Cabinet. He's going to reach straight for the top right shelf, the one with the key on it, the thing he's been avoiding this whole time. He's going to pick it up, that key; the one that's nothing special, just the same brass material as the handles of the door, no unique design or anything. But if you squint through the darkness there's a door on the back wall of the Cabinet, small and shallow, locked from the inside. That key, it's nothing special, but it's just the right size to fit into that lock.  
  
And the key's been there on the top right shelf, slowly gathering dust, untouched since the first day it was put there. But today, Luhan is going to pick it up. He's going to lean all the way into the Cabinet until he reaches the back wall, and then he's going to fit that key into the lock and turn it.  
  
Because the last thing, really, is behind that door.  
  
And once he lets it out, this will all be over.

 

 

 

So tonight, Luhan is onstage. Tonight, he stands side-by-side with the other eleven EXO members and looks out into the stadium. With the way the screams from the crowd are so loud, so piercing, so overpowering, they should be making his head ache; he barely hears them. With the way the lights are so bright, so focussed, so pointed, they should be making his eyes sting and his balance falter; he barely sees them. With the way their costumes are so heavy, so thick, so tight, he should be burning from the heat; he barely feels them.  
  
Because tonight he's too busy thinking that, soon, this will all be over.  
  
But with the twelve of them standing side-by-side, Luhan begins to think. He begins to wonder again what would happen if he stands here and says _Hello, we are EXO, and we are one_ without ignoring the sound of his voice. If he keeps listening after that, no matter what names he hears. He begins to think that if he's letting everything go, if this all ends tonight, maybe it's time to listen.  
  
And so he does.

 

 

 

Tonight _(9th June, he's lost track of time and he doesn't care)_ , Luhan says, "Hello, we are EXO, and we are one". Tonight, he stands side-by-side with the other eleven and listens.  
  
_Hello, I'm EXO-M's Kris._  
  
One more.  
  
_Hello, I'm EXO-M's Lay._  
  
His turn.  
  
_"Hello, I'm EXO-M's Luhan."_  
  
Keep listening.  
  
_Hello, I'm EXO-M's Chen._  
  
Don't block it out.  
  
_Hello, I'm EXO-M's Tao._  
  
Stay present.  
  
_Hello, I'm EXO-K's Chanyeol._  
  
Wait.  
  
_Hello, I'm EXO-K's D.O._  
  
No.  
  
_Hello, I'm EXO-K's Sehun._  
  
This is wrong.  
  
_Hello, I'm EXO-K's Kai._  
  
This has to be a mistake.  
  
_Hello, I'm EXO-K's Suho._  
  
Pretend it's not happening.  
  
_Hello, I'm EXO-K's Baekhyun._  
  
No. Block it out. Block it out fast, before —  
  
_Hello, I'm EXO-K's Jino._  
  
Twelve members.

 

 

 

In the back of his mind, Luhan is opening the Cabinet.  
  
He's pulling open the engraved wood doors, revealing the dark space inside, and he's thinking _no, stop_.  
  
He's leaning into it, scanning over the five empty shelves until he sees the last occupied one, and he's thinking _not yet_.  
  
He's reaching into the darkness, closing his fingers around the key; the cold metal is heavy in his palm, and he's thinking _I'm not ready_.  
  
He's sliding it into the lock in the back wall and turning it, feeling the click as five months later it finally opens, and he's thinking _no, stop, I'm scared, I'm so fucking scared_ —  
  
And this is when the door bursts open.  
  
This is when the thing locked away in the back of his mind is freed.

 

 

 

9th June, and the twelve members of EXO are standing onstage at SMTown Taiwan. Together, side-by-side, they're holding hands. They introduce themselves down the line, one-by-one. Minseok doesn't speak.  
  
5th June, and Luhan's on a video chat with Jino. Minseok's walking in, and Luhan's trying to hide him from view; _who are you talking to?_ asks Jino, because he doesn't see Minseok.  
  
4th June, and Luhan takes a photograph with Minseok. Both are them are smiling into the camera for the first time in months, five fucking months. When Luhan looks at the photo, Minseok's not in it.  
  
25th May, and Luhan collides with Yixing during dance practice and sprains his wrist. He's trying to follow an old choreography, one where Jongdae and Yixing and Zitao and Wufan aren't closing up the spaces where Minseok should be. The spaces where Minseok isn't.  
  
19th May, and Luhan's wandering through an amusement park. He's laughing softly to himself as he stands with the bags, looking up at the roller coasters and thinking about his fear of heights.  
  
18th May, and Luhan's tucking a pillow behind his head before laying down for a nap. While he's asleep, Jongdae plays his game and leaves it exactly where Luhan left it. When he wakes up, Luhan opens it and smiles.  
  
16th May, and Luhan's storming out of Zitao's bedroom after what he thinks was an argument but he isn't really sure. The others are looking at him with worry and confusion and something that might be pity; they heard Luhan's side of the argument. They didn't hear Minseok's.  
  
15th May, and Luhan's not listening to their interview introduction. He doesn't want to hear _Hello, I'm EXO-M's Xiumin_. Or maybe he doesn't want to hear _Hello, I'm EXO-M's Xiumin and I'm not actually here_ —  
  
13th April, and the truth is that Luhan doesn't listen to introductions. He thinks he's afraid of what he'll hear. Truly, he's afraid of what he won't hear.  
  
24th April, and nothing in the airport is what it looks like. Because it looks like Luhan alone and leaning against the side of a chair holding his own hand and it's sad, so fucking sad.

 

 

 

Today _(4th January, sometime between seven and eight PM, he's vaguely aware of this)_ , it's cold.  
  
Luhan's shivering like he might never get warm. Standing there in one of the SM building's practice rooms, running through familiar routines, he's cold. And he's paused for a minute, just a minute, when the door creaks open. When hesitantly, step by step, a man enters the room.  
  
His name is Im Hyunkyun, and he's been assigned to be one of EXO-M's future managers.  
  
This is when the happy couple thing ends.  
  
It starts with Hyunkyun saying, _Luhan, have you got a moment?_  
  
Of course he does.  
  
It continues with him saying, _We really need to talk._  
  
Of course they do.  
  
It approaches its conclusion with Hyunkyun moving forward, resting a hand on Luhan's shoulder, taking a deep breath, _It's important._  
  
Of course it is.  
  
And it ends like this: with five words. Five words is all it takes.  
  
_Kim Minseok died this morning._


End file.
